Oregon Ducks, Not Geoducks

Travis sat in his first period class, Descisions. “A boring senior slack off class about boring life skills like writing checks, doing taxes, renting an apartment etc.,” is how he’d described it in his journal. When his teacher had urged them to write their post graduation intentions and to, “please share them with the folks sitting next to you,” Travis had responded with a hyperbolic sigh and exaggerated eye roll/chair slump then scrawled three giant, sloppy intentions in his spiral notebook, 1.College 2.Chicks 3.Snowboarding. But also worth noting, before anyone could notice, he slid his journal, a small, black, leather-bound Moleskine from his front pocket, scribbled a secretive 4th intention and slipped the notebook back in place. Travis then turned to Natalie, the neighbor he associated with her makeup-covered acne, and said “psh, so lame, right?”

Later that afternoon Travis stood in the cramped storage unit his boss rented to illegally pack and ship geoducks. “A Geoduck is a giant northwestern clam with a protruding siphon that looks like a dick,” is how Travis described them to whomever might be in earshot. He felt this description made him sound both funny and masculine. This so-called workplace was unlicensed and illegal, as were the shellfish he was handling. The job was easy though, paid ten under-the-table dollars per hour—a solid wage for a high school senior in 2001—and therefore worth the felonies he was committing, unwittingly or not.

It went like this: place chunks of dry ice in styrofoam box, grab geoducks from large, disgusting, off-gassing, polyethylene barrel, place geoducks in styrofoam box, secure lid, place styrofoam box into cardboard box, secure with copious amounts of packing tape, add label with indecipherable Chinese address, repeat.

As he packed the cold, flaccid brown-gray clams into dry ice he replayed a conversation he’d had with his Dad the previous evening. He’d, “wanted to go to UofO so bad,” reach into barrel, since they’d, “watched the rose bowl when I was 12,” geoduck into styrofoam, even more so, “after I visited Eugene with Mom this summer,” slide on styrofoam top, but Dad had different ideas, into cardboard box, “State School...” tape, “Probably Western…” more tape, “Maybe Central…” indecipherable Chinese label, “...You just don’t have the grades...”. repeat, “...Without Scholarships you can’t go out of State...” reach into barrel, “...You got twenty grand lying around...?” geoduck into styrofoam, “...I didn’t think so, neither do I...” styrofoam top, “Why’d Megan get to go out of State?” into cardboard box, “Is your name Megan…?” tape, “no, your name is Travis…” more tape, “A fuckin’ State School, Dad?” indecipherable Chinese label, “An embarrassing, stupid, fucking State School,” is how he’d described it in his journal. Repeat.

Travis was then interrupted from his self loathing and startled back to cold, fishy storage unit reality by Shane who pulled his Sony Behind-the-Neck headphones off his ears.

“It’s your turn to pick up paychecks.”

“Wha—”

“I said, It’s your turn to pick up paychecks.”

“Nah man. You’re kidding? I can’t today. Can you do it? Please? I’ve had a shit—“

“Haha, fuck no. Later brah,” Shane threw up devil's horns and walked out the door.

“Fuck,” Travis tossed the last of the geoducks into a box bound for Shenzhen.

A few minutes later Travis slumped into his late model, silver Camry and ducked under the automatic seat belt as it strafed the bleached tips of his brown mop. He pulled the removable faceplate from the front pocket of his hoodie and notched it into the empty slot on the dash. It danced to life casting his face in a blue light. A pixelated dolphin swam across the small screen. Previously noted in his journal was the fact that the MP3/CD player/Tuner was his prized possession and he would willingly, “give his right nut for it.” It represented many boxes of geoducks. Of the purchase he would later write, “I wondered if I should’ve saved that cash for tuition instead of throwing it away at CarToys.” He also wondered if, “maybe he should’ve listened in Math class instead of drawing f’ing cool logos, trippy shit and snowboarders” on the brown grocery bag covering his math book, the one, “Cory Bond had said, ‘looked cool.’” Not mentioned in his journal was the fact that he’d also written a few edgy swear words and some lyrics from a song by System of a Down. But he’d assured himself that, “no, college was Dad’s fault.”

If he was going to go to James’ weird house Travis needed to relax. He pressed eject and the stereo flipped like a Transformer, something he still got excited about, and the Limp Bizkit album slid out. He replaced it in his visor mounted Case Logic, pulled out his CD-R/MP3 labeled Travis’ Cool Mix and slid it into the CD player.

Not only did Travis and his buddies hate the monotony of the job, they also hated their kooky boss, James Saponich. Not for the usual shitty-boss reasons. He wasn’t overbearing, he didn’t micromanage, nothing completely normal like that. He was just nuts. He could fly off the handle at any moment. Sometimes up, sometimes down. He had a reputation in town and many documented run-ins with neighbors, the law, city council, etc. One particular incident stood out. Travis had saved a yellowed clipping of the headline, “Pierce County Man Shoots at Passing Car.” It involved near-nudity, shouting vodka soaked conspiracies at passing cars and shooting a .21 caliber rifle at the unfortunate good samaritan who stopped to offer help. Then there were undocumented rumors: he worked with Chinese organized crime—cough, geoducks—he was dishonorably discharged from the army during Vietnam, he made his son’s friends watch porn with him after buying them beer, etc. Before Travis had stumbled into this job he’d only had one interaction with the guy in 7th grade. He was playing hacky sack before school and Saponich pulled up to drop off his son, Peter. According to James, Travis “had looked at my son the wrong way.” He can still remember the vitriol streaming out from behind the aviator glasses and the cracked, full-tint windows of the mint-green Mach 1. Travis had just stood there, stunned, looking dumb in his cargo shorts and Airwalks. Of the experience he’d written in a dorkier journal, “what kind of adult thinks they can talk to a kid like that?”

He just wanted to go home, steal away to the trails behind his house, smoke a bowl, lock himself in the bonus room, play Tony Hawk until dinner, fake his way through fish sticks and broccoli and maybe mastrubate before bed. James paid in cash which was cool, gas money, beer money, cosmic-bowling money, etc., but when it came time to collect, at least when it was his turn, it almost wasn’t worth it. As he neared the turn-off he’d wondered aloud, “Why this week? Why me?”

Saponich lived on ten junk filled acres near the middle school. Travis drove up the long driveway past moss covered fishing boats, nets, buoys and a variety of unsettling homemade No Trespassing signs. He pulled up next to the yellow submarine, the most peculiar gem of this nautical junk menagerie.

A cryptic note was taped to the front door. I’m in the den, let yourself in. SHOES OFF! Travis hesitated. Going inside had never been part of the deal. But he just wanted to get this over with so he flung the door open and was welcomed by the smell of cooking oil and cigarettes. He could hear the Mariners playing softly on the TV in the other room. There were cheap Samurai Swords displayed over what looked to Travis’ small town eyes like a shrine. He removed his plump Osiris shoes and left them next to the old fruit and smoldering incense at the base of the shrine. As he walked toward the sound of the game he dared not look at the framed photographs lining the wood paneled hallway. He couldn’t help but notice a few faded shots from James’ deployment in Vietnam and a Sears style family portrait with Peter and his ex-wife. At the end of the hallway he came to the living room. It was littered with empty Vodka pints and a variety of fast food containers. In the living room he also found Saponich passed out on a faded, green Laz-E-Boy recliner. He was shirtless and wore a soiled pair of plaid pajama pants. Travis cleared his throat in a feeble attempt to rouse his boss. Nothing.

“Excuse me, Mr. Saponich,” he half-whispered, “shit, come on,” under his breath, “James,” a little louder this time, still nothing, “JAMES!” Saponich didn’t move.

Travis wondered if he should just cut and run. Maybe come back tomorrow. But, he couldn’t. It was Friday. His buddies were counting on him. Travis scanned the room uncomfortably.

“Thank fuck.”

Mercifully, Travis spotted 4 stacks of bills resting under a bowl of cigarette butts on the side table just behind James’ slack right arm. The table was wedged between the Laz-E-Boy and a wood burning stove. He knew the stacks were weekly salary for him, Shane, Brett and Jordan. He pulled out his Moleskin, quickly scrawled a note and tore it from the notebook. In doing so he revealed the secret post-graduation intention he’d written earlier that day, it reminded him of UofO, his Dad, his future or lack thereof. In his miniscule boxy script he’d written, Oregon Ducks. Not Geoducks.

He shook it off and mustered all the poise and vigilance he could as he leaned over James’ seemingly putrescent body to place the note on the side table and collect the cash. Of that moment he’d later write that he, “almost shat myself with fear.” While balanced precariously above Saponich he could smell the sweetly rotten scent of ethanol emanating from shallow breaths below. Stretching across the final span, something caught his eye, a box on the floor which had previously been obscured by the recliner. It had the all too familiar indecipherable Chinese labels and was filled with bundles of US cash. The labels on each bundle were clear as day: $5,000.00. Travis had later recorded it as, “A metric-fuck-ton of cash and it was ripe for the taking. There had to be at least $20,000 just sitting in that box.” The mantra repeated itself, Ducks. Not Geoducks. He thought about UofO, his Dad, his bright future, “Do you have twenty grand lying around?”

“Don’t be a fucking idiot,” James was awake, his eyes thick and bloodshot. Travis felt the cold metal of a pistol poking his ribs.

“Oh, fuck!” startled, Travis collapsed onto a nearby loveseat, “...Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”

“What are you doing?”

“Oh, here,” after an awkward pause Travis handed James his note, “uh, just here to grab this week's pay for me and the guys.”

Saponich scrutinized the note. He casually slid the pistol back between the cushion and armrest and gathered the cash from the side table. He handed it to Travis.

“Here.”

“Thanks.”

Saponich then slid the box of Chinese cash under the recliner and nodded his head toward the box.

“Didn’t get any ideas, didja?”

“What, that? No.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” he pulled a crumpled cigarette pack out from the cushion, slid a cigarette out with his lips and lit it.

“Is there anything else I can do for you Travis?”

“Nope, sorry. Alright, I’ll just leave you be.”

“That would be good.”

Travis stashed the money in the front pocket of his hoodie and bolted for the door. He didn’t take the time to put on his shoes, he just grabbed them and ran outside. Slumped in the front seat of the Camry he slid off his wet socks, pulled out his Moleskin and violently scribbled out his intention. Underneath he wrote a new one: Maybe a state school wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen.